Not Bored
by likeateddybear
Summary: "He wasn't bored. And, believe it, he knew what bored meant. But that was something he was not." Dark. Angst. T for drug use. Abstract writing  my best style, in my opinion, so please take a look, if you would do me the honor. 2-shot. Each POV
1. Chapter 1

He was on the couch. He was spread out, limbs splayed everywhere. His head was on the arm rest, but he didn't know where the rest of him was. Something was touching his hand and he couldn't place how it felt, but it felt.

Or maybe it tasted.

He couldn't decide.

And who was he? He knew he knew this, this was the simplest of knowledge. He had to know this, he had to. He felt like it certainly couldn't be Sherlock, but also that it had to be, because who else but him could be called something like this?

And when he heard (or was it felt?) the door (window?) open, he suddenly found his head spinning and spinning and the room was spinning and everything was everywhere, but suddenly he saw his legs, if that's what they were, and his feet connected. His feet in shoes, so shiny black, or was it salty black? They were on the floor. The wooden, carpet floor.

And the room was everywhere again and he was looking towards the door. It had been the door all along. But what had it done? What do doors do?

More importantly, there was a man standing there.

"Who are you?" came a voice somewhere from Sherlock's chest, so he looked down at his chest and he stared and stared until the man at the door also had a voice travel over.

But what did he say?

He looked at the man and couldn't see his face, he couldn't see his face, where was his face, where was it?

"You are in my flat," the voice from his chest stated steadily. He looked down at his chest for a second again. It was doing what he needed it to, so maybe the voice was his friend.

"Where are you?" his friend asked.

"Where am- I'm right in _front _of you, Sherlock," replied the man. Sherlock stared at him. He had been right. It is his name, it couldn't be anything but that. He had always known that it had to be.

"I meant who. Where are we going?" he found the voice asking when the man walked closer and held out his knee (or was it his foot?), no, it had to be his hand, didn't it?

"Take my hand," the man said softly. Sherlock found (what had to be) his own hand betraying him and taking hold of the man's hand.

"You filthy sneak," his friend hissed at the hand. The hand looked sad, but held firm and determined. Sherlock felt something on his face and decided to call it a smeer, though sneer sounded better. He liked smeer.

He felt his arm get pulled out of its socket and everything was gone, the room was everywhere and nowhere and his heart was beating in every part of him, but no part was connected to any other part. Where were his feet, where was his hand, where was his face, and where was his friend?

"Help," said his friend from his chest in a small voice, and everything was there again. He found his friend, he found his limbs, and he found the man without the face.

But his face was there, but it looked clouded. Sherlock felt his face do some sort of involuntary twitch- blink. He blinked. And his face felt (or tasted?) wet (or salty?) and nothing was clouded anymore.

"John," the voice said. "John, that's you, that's John. It's John, John," the voice continued, telling Sherlock and his fingers and his eyes and his feet and his shoes and his knees and Sherlock and Sherlock and Sherlock and Sherlock and it was telling everything and when Sherlock stopped listening (or the voice stopped talking, whichever it was), he didn't see the man anymore, but he felt warm (or was it comfortable?) and he felt safe (or was it loved?) and he didn't want to move (or was it that he wanted to cry? What was that?)

And where was anything?

"I'm here," came a voice from the man's chest.

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock's friend said to the man's friend.

"You… too," the voice replied. And Sherlock's voice laughed happily. The man pulled back and looked (or smelled?) at him, letting out a surprised laugh.

This only made Sherlock's friend from his chest laugh louder, and louder, and he was clutching at his chest, why was his friend hurting him, why, why, why, why, and it was laughing louder and louder, and ouch, and it was screaming he was screaming and screaming and the world was spinning.

And everything was silent and the world was still, but it was spinning around him. And the man was leaning over him. It was John, it was John. John.

"John," Sherlock croaked.

"Sherlock?" he asked back timidly.

"Is my chest voice friend gone? He was hurting me."

It was silent for what felt like forever and ever and it was much too long.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes. He's gone, he won't hurt you," came a reply with a very odd voice. Sherlock stared at John's face, it was certainly his face it couldn't be anyone else but John Watson's face. And he looked like his eyes were also salty (or was it wet?) like Sherlock's had been.

And Sherlock felt his face squeeze and it was weird, but he felt his chest tighten and it was weird, but he felt John lean on him and pull him against him warm and safe again, and it was nice and he couldn't control it when he started making weird noises.

He didn't approve of them, but then his knees decided they weren't close enough to him and his chest was so tight and he was— sobbing, he was sobbing and he had something wet or salty or black (what was it?) on his face and he felt John and he was shaking and making… hushing noises and muttering something and it wasn't clear, but things were clearing up, but then everything was gone and he was sleeping.

But he wasn't bored. And, believe it, he knew what bored meant.

But that was something he was not.


	2. Chapter 2

Some days, I feel like I'm completely useless to Sherlock. On those days, I wish I could help more.

The days that he's on cases, I feel incompetent, even though he tells me (sort of) otherwise, sometimes.

And then there's the days when he gets bored.

Sometimes I can entertain him pretty well.

But sometimes I'm not home. Sometimes I'm at the clinic and have been working overtime to pay the rent. Sometimes he hasn't had a case in a couple of weeks. And always it gets to him.

Especially today.

I hadn't had time to go shopping that day. I had somewhat cryptic sounding texts from Sherlock.

_BORED! If you don't hurry home, I'm going to get TOO bored. –SH_

**Sherlock, I have clinic work. I can't just drop everything to entertain you. I'll be out soon.**

_You're taking too long. –SH_

**I still have an hour or so to go. Come on, seriously. **

_Too long. Too late. –SH_

**Sherlock, what did you do?**

**Sherlock? **

**Sherlock! Answer your phone!**

Needless to say, I tried to get out early. It didn't really work out. I was mostly just worried he'd blown apart the flat. I would have preferred it, actually, to what he actually did.

When I entered the building itself, Mrs. Hudson was just going outside. She stopped me.

"Oh, dear, Sherlock's up there and he slammed the door pretty loud earlier. He seems huffy, I think he's upset because nothing's going on!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know," I had sighed. "Did you hear any explosions? Gun shots? Screams of the innocent?"

"No, no. Well, I heard a thud, but he probably just tripped."

"Tripped? Yeah, not likely. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I had said, giving her a hug. I rushed up the stairs and opened the door to a very odd sight.

The flat was torn apart like someone had been looking for something. The wall had writing on it in spray paint, but only a few words like (surprise surprise) "BORED," "WHERE," and something that looked like it could say my name, but I really couldn't be sure. I looked around for a second before my eyes settled on the couch.

Sherlock was spread out on it, limbs splayed everywhere. He didn't seem to notice me yet, but his brow was furrowed and he looked like he was deep in thought about something.

And, sort of suddenly, his legs sort of flung themselves off of the back of the couch and he sat up. I heard something fall on the ground, but I was too busy staring at Sherlock's face. His mouth was wide open in a shocked sort of way, and it was obvious to me that he was dizzy. His eyes looked confused and a bit horrified. He looked down and stared at his shoes.

I looked to what he dropped and, yes, I was right. A syringe. Perfect. Something caught my eye and I looked at the desk – only to see more. I gave a small groan and Sherlock turned his head towards me, mouth closing.

His eyes didn't find me for about a minute.

"Who are you?" is what he had asked me, in the softest of voices. He immediately looked down at his chest in confusion.

"What have you done, you bloody idiot?" I groaned quietly. He looked up at me again.

He squinted at me, he flexed his fingers, he squinted harder, he opened his eyes wide. He couldn't see me well enough. I heaved a sigh.

"You are in my flat," he had said very matter-of-factly before looking down at his chest again. He looked up quickly this time. "Where are you?" I shook my head frantically, becoming a bit hysterical.

"Where am- I'm right in _front _of you, Sherlock," I had replied. He watched me and watched me for a good minute or so. I didn't know what to do.

"I meant who," he said before staring at me with his mouth open again. I shook a little bit, I shivered a lot from the sight of this god-like man being completely incapacitated. I walked over to him and held out my hand for him to take. His eyes didn't follow me, they were still staring at where I was. He looked up at me. "Where are we going?"

"Take my hand," I said softly. God, I felt like dying. I felt like it was entirely my fault. I wanted to… Alright, I wanted to cry. This was horrible, my best friend was sitting here… Like this. Everything he usually worked for thrown away by a couple of needles.

But his hand immediately went to mine. He didn't look pleased, however.

"You filthy sneak," is what he hissed at his hand with a sneer. I took a deep breath and pulled him up carefully, taking his other arm and then wrapping my arm around his waist until he seemed like he could stand on his own. He looked dizzy again, like he was watching the world spin around him and found it to be the most horrifying thing he had ever seen in his life.

"Help."

I was shocked at his tone. He had whimpered it, nearly. Squeaked it, maybe. He sounded helpless and – not like Sherlock. He gave a huge gasp, and his eyes were filled with tears. He blinked and they fell. He looked really surprised by that, his finger going up to catch one.

But he was looking at me with the oddest expression. He looked sad, I don't know, it was just horrifying to see on his face.

"John," he had said. "John, that's you, that's John. It's John, John."

I hugged him carefully, tightly, as if someone could snatch him away at any second. His arms loosely wrapped around me in turn. I felt him give a small sob.

"I'm here," I had said soothingly, or I hoped so.

"Nice to meet you."

"You… too," I had replied. Sherlock gave a very joyous laugh. I pulled back to look at him with a sort of startled, horrified giggle.

It seems my laughter caused a sort of chain reaction, as Sherlock began laughing louder. He was laughing so loudly that it was kind of scary, and after a while, he was clutching at his chest and stomach as he laughed a booming laugh. He was gasping and laughing. It was loud and then it was suddenly screams. He was screaming so loudly, as if he was being lit on fire.

I quickly pushed him down onto the couch and leaned over him. He stopped screaming and stared at the ceiling, giving gasps of breath and looking completely horrified. His eyes found my face.

"John," his voice came out in a croak.

"Sherlock?" I asked back. I was worried. God, I was. Was he dying? Had he had too much? Granted, any would qualify as too much, but had he had so much that it would kill him?

"Is my chest voice friend gone? He was hurting me." It took me a second to figure out he was talking about his voice. The laughter, or maybe it was the screaming. "John?" His voice sounded frantic, lost. My throat clenched up.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes. He's gone, he won't hurt you," I had said in a very choked voice. I watched his eyebrows furrow and I knew he could see the tears in my eyes, but, God, I couldn't help it!

But his face scrunched up and I could tell he was about to cry, even if I've never seen him cry, personally. He clutched at his chest and I immediately knelt down and hugged him the best I could without awkwardly lying on top of him. I turned his body slightly and held him close, and he buried his face in my neck, his knees pulled up, and he began sobbing.

I hushed and soothed.

"It's fine," I had muttered. "It's going to be okay. You've lost touch with reality. It's fine, I'm right here." I was just saying things to say them, at this point. And he was just sobbing because he had too much. _He_ was confused, for once. And he _hated_ it.

His sobs calmed down and he went limp, every so often he would clutch me a bit tight. It took a while before he let me get up. He was still. I panicked, immediately checking him over. He was breathing, his heart rate was fine.

Of course, I called an ambulance.

Of course, he woke up in the hospital and was extremely angry with me.

He didn't remember it.

But I did. And the next time he was out, I called Lestrade in to help me find any drug Sherlock could possibly have in the flat.

Needless to say, any time he was bored from that point on, I rushed to his side.

I would never let him be bored again.

Not like that.


End file.
